


All the time I hold

by Skylark



Series: HSWC 2013 [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Burns, Doomed Timelines, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mild Gore, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Passing mention of vomiting, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 01:21:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylark/pseuds/Skylark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's pesterchum handle goes dead, and you know.  —Dave♦John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the time I hold

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "Everyone has a moment in history which belongs particularly to him. It is the moment when his emotions achieve their most powerful sway over him, and afterward when you say to this person "the world today" or "life" or "reality" he will assume that you mean this moment, even if it is fifty years past. The world, through his unleashed emotions, imprinted itself upon him, and he carries the stamp of that passing moment forever.” -John Knowles, _A Separate Peace_
> 
> According to the Wiki, "It is later revealed in a shared dream bubble between the John that died in [Davesprite's] doomed timeline and Vriska that while he was tricked into [fighting his Denizen too early], the act of dying was his own choice. He spoke with Typheus... [and learned] that the timeline he is in is doomed anyway, and is given The Choice. ... He takes the option to be killed by Typheus, which would spur Dave to go back in time and become Davesprite. John is shown to have scorch marks, implying he was burnt to death."

 

John's pesterchum handle goes dead, and you know.

 

\--

 

TT: Dave, it wasn't your fault.  
TG: yeah  
TG: it is  
TG: if id just 

 

\--

 

John's denizen is a monstrous thing. You see the green coils slinking across the floor, look up and up, and the rabbit-like animal part of your brain instantly flees, taking most of your stomach with it.

sup, you say.

It extends a long white neck—fuck, what part of it stops being a neck, really?—to stare at you. You are here for the heir, it says.

You open your mouth but your voicebox is down for the count. You snap your jaw shut and give a jerky nod instead.

Typheus's long sigh swirls around you and ripples your clothing. Its breath smells soured-sweet, ocean breezes choked by oil. You tense when it begins to move, but it's slithering aside, away from you. Its scales glisten in the dim torches that line the walls: you've traveled miles underground to find this place. To find John.

 

\--

 

There isn't much left. He's—fuck. He's worse than any body you've ever seen, and you've seen a lot of dead bodies already (all of them yours).

His glasses are gone. So is his hair, and most of his skin. You reach out to touch him and every cell in your body revolts. A hard shake runs through you. You tell yourself, _fuck you,_ and do it anyway.

You've never gotten a moment of peace to deal with death, ever. Finding dead Daves has never stopped being a thing, but you've never gotten used to them, either: the plain finality of each dead you, the limp way the bodies flop if you try to move them. Not that you often get a chance to move them, anyway. Discovering your corpse is almost always coupled with an internal flare of jarring, numb shock, and the external chaos of whatever wants you dead in the immediate vicinity. Dead Daves are like canaries in the mine—it's gonna go to shit in a second here, get ready.

Dead Johns, you think, are probably a bit more final.

Your hand scrapes against what used to be his ribcage. You know this, because you can see them. You try desperately not to throw up. You have to—what else is there? Captchaloguing? That's even worse.

jesus fucking christ, you say. what did you _do._

The denizen's exhale blows the smell clear, which is something you're horribly grateful for. What he wanted, it replies, and that makes no fucking sense. It must be another riddle. You are so sick of people playing games with you, of people, of games, of everything.

You gather the pieces of your best friend in your arms, and he's lighter than you expected, heavier than you imagined. There's barely any blood left to get on you—it's all been boiled away. 

you stupid son of a bitch, you say, and it's not John you're talking to.

You get to your feet. Typheus's head bows, and he lets you pass.

 

\--

 

You sit with your arms around your knees at the base of his quest bed. It's a stupid fucking gesture, but you couldn't think of anything else to do with i—with John. Rose is probably still pestering you, but you blocked her hours ago. You just. Need a minute.

For a long time you sit there, staring at your blood-spattered shoes, unmoving.

You lift your head and stare at the roiling clouds that coat John's planet, then down, at the fireflies that have affixed themselves to every part of him that remains. 

ill fix this, you say.


End file.
